What the Hell, Give Me Back My Speech Bubble!!!

Thirin’s brain got fried the moment she fell into this other world.

The damage was so severe that her usable vocabulary had been reduced to a pathetically limited set. Fewer than ten words total—most of them variations on impossible sexual acts, genetic delivery mechanisms, and the immature offspring of canines. As a result, her sentences came out something like this:

Fortunately for Thirin, after a few months of rolling around this fantasy world, a handful of people had begun to understand her. It was a miracle born from a beggar’s sharpened instincts and the reasonably kind heart of a certain priest.

In a corner of the village, far from the grand temple that worshipped all gods, stood a shabby church devoted solely to the Savior. Its priest, Peter, spoke with a dry sigh.

“So you’re saying you’re going to camp out in front of the temple all day because it’s a holy day? You can barely talk, yet you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠somehow remember that much.”

Thirin flashed a crooked grin.

“Bastard.”

“Still, I don’t think it’s a great idea. If you loiter there from morning, they’ll call it bad luck and chase you off. Better to show up around evening. There won’t be any meat left, but what can you do?”

Thirin’s face fell.

“Motherfuu…”

“Don’t look so betrayed. That’s just how a beggar’s life goes.” Peter shrugged indifferently. “And like I’ve told you before, wouldn’t it be better to just pretend you’re mute instead of spewing nonsense? Might even improve your begging success rate.”

“Mm.”

“You hate this, you hate that… yet you still complain about being hungry. I’ve said it before—you could make a living if you’d just keep your mouth shut.”

Peter’s gaze lingered briefly on Thirin’s face.

“Wilson’s second floor is a bit cramped, but if you stayed there you wouldn’t go hungry. It’s a tavern, so you might even get free beer. Sure, the girl who works there got beaten pretty badly recently, but that’s not exactly common.”

Thirin shot him a glare, but Peter continued as if it were nothing.

“For a young woman in your position, living off men’s goodwill isn’t the worst thing in the world. Everyone’s just scrambling to survive.”

“Your mother’s a whore.”

“…Sometimes I really wonder if you’re doing this on purpose. You can talk properly, can’t you?”

Thirin simply shrugged. Even though Peter had developed an almost divine talent for deciphering her speech, there were still limits. With her damaged language center, she had no way to convey that she was originally a straight male and had zero intention of spreading her legs for medieval savages, even if it killed her.

Peter let out a long sigh.

“Well, with the way you look right now, it’d be hard to receive that kind of goodwill anyway. Why do you insist on walking around like that?”

Thirin occasionally rolled around in mud puddles like a wild dog. Because of it, Peter sometimes wondered if she was genuinely insane. But it was all part of her desperate plan.

A post-apocalyptic effort to become ugly.

After arriving in this world, Thirin had quickly realized that her charm stat of 180 was more poison than blessing. To kill that beauty, she rolled in mud whenever she could and smeared soot from the village’s communal oven all over her face. It was no exaggeration to call it a life-or-death struggle to turn herself into a different race.

And Thirin had succeeded. She had changed her race through sheer effort.

Thanks to that, everyone now looked at her like a half-chewed dog bone. For a soft modern person trying to survive in a medieval fantasy land, it was a strangely successful survival strategy.

“Where are you going?”

Having failed to get any entertainment out of Peter, Thirin shrugged and stood up. The festival food wouldn’t be handed out until evening anyway. Her steps naturally turned toward a small bakery on the edge of the village square.

She would almost certainly run into something annoying today. But for the past several days she had been surviving on unknown wild berries, tiny fish, and even poisonous mushrooms. Since she was in the village, she wanted to eat something proper for once.

When Thirin peeked around the bakery entrance, Martha came out from the back. The woman spotted her and offered a faint smile.

Martha, the bakery owner, was a kind-hearted widow. She pitied ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Thirin, who could barely speak and was always filthy, and would save the hardest leftover bread or the broken ends of cookies to give her. Thirin was grateful for the goodwill, but it also put her in a difficult position.

Without a word, Thirin approached ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and pulled out a crumpled cloth pouch from her clothes, offering it silently. Inside were a few handfuls of medicinal herbs and mushrooms she had gathered from the forest outside the village. They looked shabby, but their effects were genuine. After all, Thirin had tested every one on her own body to make sure they weren’t poisonous.

When Peter had learned about that particular habit, he had been horrified and tried to stop her. But aside from the pain, Thirin had suffered surprisingly few side effects. Ever since, Peter had looked at her with strangely complicated eyes.

Martha peered into the pouch, her eyes widening slightly before she smiled warmly.

“You brought these for me? Thank you, but you really don’t have to. I only…”

Thirin cut her off by pressing the pouch firmly into Martha’s hands and shaking her head. It was meant to mean ‘It’s fine’ or ‘Just take it,’ but nothing proper came out—only a low, growling sound.

Thirin hated giving or receiving things one-sidedly. This was her own stubborn way of paying the minimum price.

Martha stared at Thirin’s stubborn gaze for a moment, then finally accepted the pouch with a complicated expression. Pity, apologetic guilt that it wasn’t necessary, and a touch of gratitude for this strange girl who expressed her feelings in such an odd way.

“Alright… ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I’ll use them gratefully. I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather, so I’ll make some tea with these.”

In return, Martha handed over a small bundle.

“This is all I can give you today.”

Inside the bundle were three or four small loaves of bread that had gone hard but still retained their proper shape. Thirin accepted it and bowed deeply. She didn’t bother opening her mouth. If she had tried to say ‘Thank you,’ it probably would have come out as “You son of a bitch.”

Martha smiled as if she were used to it.

“Hey, the beggar bitch is here!”

“……”

Just as Thirin had expected, the annoyance arrived. A few village kids had spotted her and swarmed over. Keeping a safe distance, they began hurling malice instead of stones.

“Ugh, that dirty crazy bitch is back again!”

“Hey, make that poop sound again! Go on, say ‘Mm! Mm!’”

“They say if you touch her you’ll catch a disease!”

Thirin’s brow twitched. If it were up to her, she would charge in right now and rip those flapping little mouths to shreds. Repaying what she received several times over was Thirin’s style.

She slowly lifted her head toward the children, ready to unleash a curse perfectly suited for these little demon spawns.

“You son of a—”

Before she could finish, the bakery door burst open and Martha’s daughter, Vera, came flying out.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing in front of our shop?! Get lost!”

The children flinched at the sight of Vera, but quickly recovered and snickered back.

“Vera, your mom gave bread to that crazy bitch again!”

“Are you gonna end up like her when you grow up? Smelly and can’t even talk!”

“You kids want another beating?!”

The children shrieked like pterodactyls and scattered. Vera, face flushed bright red, turned to her mother.

“Mom! I told you I’m dying of embarrassment because of her!”

“Vera! I told you not to use such nasty words…”

Martha tried to scold her daughter, but Vera ignored her completely, huffing as she stormed back into the shop.

Thirin stared at the door Vera had disappeared through for a moment. Irritation and anger bubbled inside her, but on the other hand, she understood. Yeah, I’d probably feel the same way. So I’ll endure it. I don’t want to show Martha anything ugly.

“Don’t mind them. The children just don’t know any better…” Martha said apologetically.

Instead of answering, Thirin bowed her head even deeper than before.

She hugged the bundle of bread tightly to her chest and turned away, doing her best to ignore the pity and contempt pressing against her back, along with the children’s giggling. The bread felt hard in her hands, but she could still sense a faint trace of Martha’s warmth. That small bit of kindness gave her steps just a little more strength.

Thirin walked to the outskirts of the village, toward a quiet stream where few people went.

“……”

Ever since falling into this world, Thirin had spent most of her time staring at the stream. Seasons came and went here without fail. Withered leaves danced in the cold wind, then warm snow fell, and soon everything froze white. When the ice melted, rain turned the ground to mud, and finally tender green shoots appeared. Even Thirin, who had little interest in such things, could tell the night sky looked different when she lay down to sleep.

Amid all that changing scenery, the only thing that never changed was Thirin, squatting by the stream.

Maybe she had grown numb. To the passing time, to the changing seasons, even to her own miserable situation. She simply existed, flowing along like the stream itself, breathing in and out. An empty stretch of time with neither happiness nor unhappiness.

Thirin stared with hollow eyes at her distorted reflection in the flowing water.

Is that really me?

A stranger’s face covered in mud and soot. A twisted thing that couldn’t even express its own heart properly.

Bread.

She thought of the simplest word in her mind. The warm, soft thing that would ease her hunger. Then she consciously moved her lips, trying to say it normally, naturally—bread.

“Your mother’s a whore.”

Yet another curse flew out of her mouth. It felt like someone else’s tongue was stuck in her throat. Thirin closed her eyes. She calmed the boiling anger and carefully organized her thoughts.

One at a time. Slowly. Don’t rush.

When she opened her eyes again, they were blazing.

Thirin hadn’t been squatting by this stream for months without purpose. Her knowledge might be lacking, but her intelligence wasn’t low. She clearly understood her problem. The wiring between the blueprint in her head and the output device called her mouth had completely short-circuited. The connection between the meaning she wanted to convey and the words that actually came out was utterly twisted. So even when she wanted to say thank you, “son of a bitch” popped out instead.

Simply memorizing or repeating words was useless. The moment the concept of bread entered her mind, her brain had already finished preparing to spit out “son of a bitch.”

That left only one method.

Abandon meaning. Chase only the sound.

While watching the stream, Thirin carefully observed her own mouth movements. Like someone mimicking the melody of a foreign song without knowing the lyrics, she obsessively studied only the lip shape, tongue position, and breath control needed to produce the target sound.

‘Ssang.’ To make this sound… right, I have to think ‘shi’ in my head but open my stupid mouth like I’m saying ‘ah’? No, that was closer to ‘ssan.’ Then for ‘ssang’… do I have to think about that fucking ‘fuck’ and curl my tongue back while making a nasal sound?

Staring at her reflection, Thirin reverse-engineered her broken brain’s wiring diagram. She had to figure out which meanings were wrongly connected to which sounds through hundreds, thousands of trials and errors, building her own bizarre pronunciation formula.

The sound ‘chaen’ came from thinking ‘foot’ and placing her tongue behind her front teeth. ‘Chan’ came from thinking ‘bastard’ and pressing against the roof of her mouth… Goddamn it, this was like trying to unscrew a nail hammered in with a hammer. No, that would actually be easier. This was more like a baby learning to walk for the first time.

But Thirin didn’t give up.

“Ssan…”

The first syllable finally came out somewhat correctly around the time the red leaves had all burned and fallen, and the cold winds began to blow. After endlessly vomiting twisted fragments of curses, as autumn drew to a close, Thirin finally captured that first sound.

“Chaeng…”

The second syllable was forged in front of the frozen stream, breaking ice with frozen hands. The bitter cold stiffened her tongue, and every breath she exhaled seemed to freeze solid. After struggling through the entire winter, as the ground began to thaw, Thirin completed the shape of the second sound.

“Tan…”

And finally, when spring arrived, Thirin was able to create the third character. The lips reflected on the water trembled faintly.

Almost there. Goddamn it, just a little more. This is the last one.

Flames burned in Thirin’s eyes. She squeezed out the last of her strength. Forcibly twisting her broken brain circuits and controlling her distorted muscles, she endured a sensation like experiencing labor pains inside her skull. At last, she completed the combination of sounds she had been aiming for.

Thirin spoke.

It rang out clearly in the air, like the sound of a rusted lock finally clicking open. It was the moment her intention and her lips finally matched—the reward for a long, humiliating period of insults and contempt.

The cursed window that had always occupied a corner of her vision finally vanished along with the clear electronic sound.

The tiresome message disappeared, and a new one scrolled up, glowing brightly.

The fog that had been pressing down on her mind lifted. Her thoughts became crystal clear.

Three seasons had passed since she fell into this other world.

And at last, Thirin could make her intention and expression match.

“Coward.”

Thirin said with a smirk.

Coward.

That was the first proper word Thirin had spoken in this world.